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Three days after I texted Zara to check on her when she had her appointment with the shrink, I’m still thinking about her. She’s on repeat in a way no woman has ever been. It took all my restraint not to accept her invitation for cake. Fuck knows I want a helluva lot more from her than cake.
It’s proving dangerous for my work, and that shit has to stop because Storm is in turmoil since King returned from Melbourne yesterday. His headaches down there haven’t been solved; they’ve intensified. But he also has Stark breathing down his neck, so he came home earlier than planned to take care of her shit. This is the reason I’m fighting like fuck to get Zara the hell out of my head; I’ve got shit to do and I don’t need the goddam distraction.
I lock eyes on my target. Tall Italian dude with a face only a mother could love. Detective Stark gave King clear instructions that we’re to bring him in alive. That makes my job a lot fucking harder. When I shoot, I shoot to fucking kill. But King’ll slice my balls off if I screw this job up. This is an important one. He muttered something about Stark backing the fuck off him for a while once we deliver this guy. I’m still waiting for the day he severs their relationship. Four years of Storm working with that bitch seems like way too fucking long to me, but who the hell knows why King does anything. My president never does shit without reason, so I trust there’s one here.
The target moves.
Fuck, this is the worst location I’ve ever had to work in. Martin Place. Smack bang in the middle of Sydney on a Saturday night with people every-fucking-where. The guy has been hard to track down, and this is the first sighting in weeks. Axe called it in to me and told me to make it count because fuck knows when he’ll surface again after today.
I keep on him as he weaves through people. The asshole is moving fast, but that only heightens my rush.
The blur of the city as our pace picks up.
The flash of people between him and me.
The bolt of energy that surges through me as I imagine inflicting pain.
It all fuses together in my mind, driving me harder and faster towards my goal.
He enters a pub, almost knocking two women down in his hurry. I follow him in and then downstairs as he shoves people aside to get to his destination.
Turns out, that destination is a fucking men’s room that stinks like some motherfucker has just dumped more shit than anyone produces in a week.
He locks himself in a stall.
I wait, not so fucking patiently.
My watch says 9:02 p.m. I’m giving this asshole to 9:04 p.m. If he isn’t finished by then, I’ll kick the door down and yank him out of there.
Pulling out my phone, I shoot a text to Hyde detailing my location. He and Devil are waiting on that information so they
can meet me with the van.
The toilet flushes and the Italian exits. Straight into my fist.
“Fuck!” he roars, stumbling back against the door of the stall.
I don’t waste time with words. Instead, I move fast to punch him again before he gets his bearings. His head bangs hard against the door. The sound is satisfying as fuck to my ears. Adrenaline races through my veins. This is the shit I live for.
With a few more punches, he’s on the ground, but he isn’t down for the count. The asshole has a lot of fight still left in him if the way his arms and legs are thrashing around is any indication.
He manages to kick me hard enough to cause me to lurch back. That gives him the window to push up off the ground and come at me.
Lunging my way, his face a picture of rage, he yells, “Who the fuck are you?”
His fist connects with my jaw right after I answer, “Your worst fucking nightmare.”
We go to battle in the tiny shithole, and amid smashed glass, broken toilet doors, holes punched into walls, and a sea of blood, I fucking win. But that was a given from the outset. I never lose a fight. It’s the reason King always calls on me.
As I stand over his unconscious body, the door to the men’s room swings open, and a guy enters. He stops the moment his gaze locks onto me. “Fucking hell,” he mutters.
As he eyes the Italian, he says, “Fuck, that’s Stefano. What the fuck are you doing with him?”
This is a detour I don’t need. I know exactly where it will lead, and that is nowhere good.
Pulling out my gun, I aim it at his head. “I don’t suppose you’re going to turn around and walk the fuck out of here if I tell you to, are you?”
